


I Need The Friction

by kaijuburgers



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern with Magic, Anal Sex, Bianca/Varric gets mentioned, Blue-Purple Hawke (Dragon Age), Leather Culture, Leather Kink, M/M, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Public Sex, Rough Sex, Self-Indulgent, Strap-Ons, The sex is surprisingly vanilla for being in a leather bar, Trans Hawke (Dragon Age), Trans Male Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-12
Updated: 2020-12-12
Packaged: 2021-03-10 06:08:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,327
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27779650
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kaijuburgers/pseuds/kaijuburgers
Summary: “Hawke, I’m insulted,” he said, smiling with a courage that he didn’t quite feel yet. “When have I ever been one to call it quits when I should?”-A shamelessly smutty Modern AU in which The Hanged Man is a leather bar, Varric allows his roommate-slash-sort-of-crush Hawke to drag him along to it one night, and filth ensues.
Relationships: Hawke/Varric Tethras, Male Hawke/Varric Tethras
Comments: 3
Kudos: 30





	I Need The Friction

**Author's Note:**

> I feel like I should add that this contains some inaccuracies on leathercare, even though literally nobody else but me cares. I actually had specific brands of leather products in mind for Hawke and Isabela. Isabela I see using Supple leather cleaner (which smells like jasmine, hence that reference), although in real life that’s conditioning enough that you only have to condition very occasionally. Hawke I can see using Huberd’s for the outdoors-y smokey pine smell, although irl that darkens leather so I wouldn’t use it on brown. But hey, fic doesn’t need to be totally accurate. Also this is porn, not a leathercare guide.
> 
> Also want to add some disclaimers that this is based on my experience of leather culture and spaces, which tend to be low protocol or entirely pick-up-play. That’s probably partly because I often can’t afford the dress code for higher protocol parties/bars (and people wonder why leather culture is dying lol), but also because I tend to hang out in mixed gender leather spaces, which tend to be more chill with mixing different kinks/fetishes within spaces.

Hawke had somehow been wearing his strap-on harness and pack-and-play under those tight jeans, because of course he had. Varric expected no less of him. It was impressive that he’d managed to fit the thick black leather and solid chunk of bendable silicone into them without it looking too much like he was hard, but it wasn’t surprising. Varric had seen his roommate-slash-best-friend-slash-sort-of-crush get ready for a Satinaday night out at The Hanged Man enough times that he knew Hawke’s go-to outfit; scuffed work boots that always came back shinier than they left, an old biker jacket with a light pink handkerchief in the left pocket, and the aforementioned harness and jeans. What was surprising—on the night Varric finally asked Hawke and Isabela to take him to The Hanged Man with them—was how Hawke ended up _using_ his harness and pack-and-play.

Hawke smelled like musk and leather and smoke when he kissed Varric, his dark beard rough as it pressed against the dwarf’s face. That was probably the most useless observation ever, given _everything_ in The Hanged Man smelled like musk and smoke and leather, but it was the first thought that came to Varric’s mind. The second was how strong his friend’s hands were as they curled around his hips and pulled him closer. One of these days Varric was going to figure out _how_ the mage managed to be so well-built compared to the other mages he knew—maybe Hawke attached weights to his staff, or maybe he bench-pressed Templars in his spare time. Either way, the mage’s arms were well muscled and strong—a dragon tattoo curling the length of one bicep—and Varric wanted to melt into them.

Varric hadn’t intended things to end up like this—really, he hadn’t! It had been an impulsive decision, made the moment he saw Isabela and Hawke in the front room cleaning and conditioning their leathers. They’d been laughing over some joke that Varric hadn’t quite caught the end of, and his curiosity about exactly what the two of them got up to at The Hanged Man had come to a head. For what it was worth, the two of them had been more than happy to take him with them. And if part of the reason that Varric was so curious about what they got up to at their leather bar was because when he looked at his best friend, he could feel something small and glowing in his chest? Well, that was wholly beside the point! Maybe, deep down, part of him had hoped that the evening would end with something like this. But there had been plenty of moments when Varric had hoped—too many to count on his hands. A hug that lingered a little long, one he’d hoped would linger even longer still. A brush of their hands when they cooked—alright, maybe cooked was too strong a word; assembled was probably more correct—food together. But hope wasn’t the same as intention. Even when Varric sat down next to Hawke at their kitchen table—the mix of jasmine and pine scents from two tins of leather conditioners thick in the air—and their legs brushed a little under the table, he hadn’t intended anything. 

And yet there he was. Kissing his best friend in the backroom of a leather bar, with the dual-density silicone of the man’s cock pressed firmly against his thigh. They were surrounded by other people and Varric knew it—when they were still waiting outside The Hanged Man for Hawke to finish his cigarette, Isabela had told him what the backroom was for—but with Hawke this close to him, it was easy not to care. He’d been waiting for this for so long that everything except Hawke’s lips on his and Hawke’s hands on his hips and Hawke’s cock against his thigh didn’t seem to exist any more, or if it did exist it didn’t matter. 

“ _Damn_ ,” Hawke murmured when they parted lips to breathe. His voice was low and husky and it made Varric’s heart beat a little faster. “If I’d known you’d throw yourself at me like this, I’d have brought you to The Hanged Man sooner.”

Varric wanted to protest that he hadn’t thrown himself at Hawke, _thank you very much_ , but whatever biting comment he was in the middle of coming up with died when Garrett pressed a hand between his thighs, cupped him in his palm, and squeezed gently. Instead, all Varric could do was let out a moan and hope the expression he was wearing didn’t look too pitiful as he met Hawke’s gaze.

_Maker. Those eyes…_

Carver had those eyes too. Maybe it was the magic in their bloodline. ’Hawke-Family Blue’, Varric called the shade in his head—a brighter blue than should be possible. But unlike Carver’s, the older Hawke’s eyes were always lit with laughter, electric and alive. Varric had wanted Hawke to look at him with softness and care in those eyes longer than he cared to think about. And instead, Hawke was looking at him with a cruelty burning in his eyes. And—for a reason that Varric couldn’t quite put his finger on—that was somehow even better.

Varric swallowed the lump that had formed in his throat—in response to the heavy smoke in the air, if anyone asked. Hawke noticed and must have mistaken it for hesitation, because he retracted his hand for a moment. The danger was gone from his voice when he spoke, the whisper smooth and soothing instead.

“Varric. We can call it here, if you want. What’s happened so far can be all that happens.” Hawke was telling the truth, and Varric knew it. It would have been so easy to end whatever this thing between them was right that moment; it would have even probably been wise. Hawke was a good friend and a good man, and if Varric decided to let that one kiss be the extent to which their relationship ever went past friendship, he would have respected it enough to never speak of that night again. It was tempting—more than Varric wanted to admit it was—to tell Hawke to stop and let things go back to normal; with him pining after his best friend and too much of a coward to do anything about it. It wasn’t what he wanted—because _Maker_ , he wanted Hawke so bad sometimes that it burned—but it would be easier. 

But if Varric had been one for always choosing what was easier—or wiser—he wouldn’t have ended up getting involved in half as many bar fights or making half as many ill-advised bets. 

“Hawke, I’m insulted,” he said, smiling with a courage that he didn’t quite feel yet. “When have I ever been one to call it quits when I should?”

The mage laughed, and Varric couldn’t keep his eyes off the other man’s face; the wrinkles at the corner of his eyes when he smiled, the little patch of his beard that was starting to turn grey, how inviting his lips looked when they were this close to Varric’s. It made everything around them seem less real, made time seem to speed up or slow down, or perhaps both at once. Later, Varric still wouldn’t be able to tell how quickly he had ended up with his back against the brickwork, his jeans around his ankles, and his best friend on his knees in front of him.

The backroom was badly lit, with the series of dim red lights casting long shadows over Hawke’s face. If it wasn’t for those Hawke-Family Blue eyes shining like beacons in the dark, Varric probably wouldn’t have been aware that Hawke was looking directly at him—meeting his gaze—when he dragged his tongue along the underside and up to the tip of Varric’s cock for the first time. _That would have been more merciful_ , he couldn’t help but think, because the sight of that and the sensation of Hawke’s lips and tongue on the head of his cock and one hand stroking and curling around his shaft and the other hand resting on his thigh—nails pressing into Varric’s skin gently enough not to draw blood but firmly enough that he couldn't forget they were there—it was all so much. _Too much._

And he liked it.

Hawke knew what he was doing. His left hand stopped pressing into Varric’s thigh and started stroking gently, and somehow that was worse. The touching was cruel—cruel in the same way that Hawke’s gaze had been—and Varric felt like he was clay being shaped under the hands of a master craftsman. Except instead of being turned into a statuette or fine porcelain or even a simple household pot, he was being turned into a mess, trying desperately not to rock his hips to push his cock further into Hawke’s mouth.

Hawke pulled away from Varric’s cock and smiled with swollen dark lips. “Always thought that necklace of yours looked like a day collar.”

Varric would have said something snarky back except that Hawke chose that moment to take his cock all the way down to the base, and what would have been the start of a witticism turned into moaning a mixture of curse words and Hawke’s name. And then—just as quickly as he’d taken Varric into his mouth—Hawke pulled back entirely, stumbling to his feet. Varric slumped against the brick wall—clothes still around his ankles—and between his heavy breaths, he couldn’t help but laugh.

“You’re _such_ a bastard.”

Hawke winked at him, bright eyes making the gesture clear, even in the dark. “I know.”

“Can’t believe you’d just leave me like this Hawke. After all we’ve been through.”

It was good to tease. To still be able to tease. Varric had always held back from doing anything because he’d been afraid that the easy casual intimacy between them was too fragile to survive it. And if the two of them were still able to joke like this literal moments later, then maybe he’d been wrong. Maybe kissing Hawke hadn’t been the stupidest idea a glass of whiskey had ever given him..

The dwarf was so caught up in his thoughts that he jolted when Hawke gently cupped his cheek in one hand.

“Oh _Varric_ ,” the mage said, and his voice was a purr that landed somewhere between coquettish and terrifying. “Who said I was done with you?” 

The sign at the entrance to The Hanged Man was of a man tied up in rope and hanging from one ankle. When the three of them had been loitering outside Varric hadn’t been able to keep his eyes off it, wondering what it would feel like to be suspended like that. _Would it feel like being weightless_ , he wondered, _or was gravity a cruel mistress, pressing rope into skin with all the weight of an entire body?_

He didn’t find the answer out that night—later, when he asked, Hawke would laugh and tell him that bondage night was Tuesday, as if this was the most obvious thing in all of Thedas—but he did find out what it was like to have his weight held up by the leather sling that hung in the corner of the backroom. It took Hawke a little time to adjust the swing’s height for the two of them—and yes, not having the sensation of his best friend’s skin against his was the most unfair thing possible—but all Varric could think when Hawke finally, mercifully bent him over was that it was worth it. It was worth it a hundred times over. 

Varric wasn’t quite sure where Hawke had gotten the lube from. Earlier than night, he’d heard Hawke complain about the open tubs of lube in the backroom to their little group— _‘unhygienic’_ he’d called it, and Isabela had nodded and pretended to be paying attention to him rather than eyeing up the redheaded butch at the end of the bar—but if Hawke had somehow kept a personal container on him, Varric had no idea where he’d been hiding it. He supposed it didn’t matter, because Hawke’s nitrile-gloved-hand was wet and slick, one finger circling his hole. A finger pressed inside, and he took it, quick and easy.

“You’ve done this before,” Hawke’s voice came from behind him, right the moment that it really hit Varric that he was doing this, in a room where anyone could be watching and somebody almost certainly _was_ watching. “Taking it like this. You get up to some fun with Bianca? Stick a suction cup to her hood and let her peg you?”

That comment hit Varric like the kind of heavy, thuddy blow he imagined the bison flogger Hawke had decided to leave at home last minute would deal out—and _Maker_ , wasn’t that an idea—and he felt heat rise to his cheeks. Hawke didn’t mean anything by it except a stupid joke—that Varric was sure of—because Hawke didn’t know about _that_ Bianca. The only Bianca Hawke knew about was Varric’s car; the old beat up car with the B14NC4 license plate that somehow seemed to stay in one piece no matter what they put her through. And if Hawke didn’t know about the _other_ Bianca, then he didn’t know how close to the truth he’d actually gotten.

Because Varric was a predictable man with predictable coping mechanisms, he decided to joke about it.

“Apologies that you’re not getting to deflower me, Hawke. I know that must be a huge disappointment.” 

Hawke snorted. “ _Maker_ , no. I like knowing I’m not going to break you.”

Varric would have pressed him on the ‘breaking him’ turn of phrase—and that wording made so many _filthy_ thoughts come to mind, but most importantly they were all about _Hawke_ —but the mage was ever the master of timing, and decided to press a second finger in him at that moment. Instead of words, all that came out was a low gasp that became a rasped moan. And then—after a length of time Varric couldn’t identify, because all there was to the world then was him and Hawke, with even the others in the backroom just becoming background noise—two became three, and then three became four, and then they had been curled forward towards his stomach, finding and stroking his prostate with expert precision. Such expert precision that Varric couldn’t help but wonder how many others Hawke had bent over like this and practiced on in the past, and then had to kick himself at the jealousy bubbling up inside of him because, frankly, he didn’t get to be jealous that Hawke had never known he was both willing and available when _he’d_ been the coward who’d refused to say anything. Such expert precision that it was easy to get lost in the sensation of it; it took Varric a few moments to realise Hawke was talking to him and a few moments more to process what had been said.

“This good for you?”

It was more than good. It was beyond good. 

Of course, Varric didn’t actually say that.

“Yeah,” he said instead, breathlessly. 

“Want me to fuck you with my cock instead of my hand?” Hawke asked, and he said it so casually for somebody with most of a fist inside somebody else. Far too casually for the way it made Varric react; his body shivered—despite the warmth that having so many bodies in one room created—, his cock twitched, and his mind went blank for a moment. When he came back to himself, he realised how much the answer was ‘yes’, how much he wanted to feel Hawke’s hands on his hips and tangled in his hair, how much he wanted it to be _Hawke_ to be the first man to touch him like this, and how much that—even though it would never have been his first choice of location for this to go down—he actually quite liked that it was happening in the backroom of The Hanged Man, so that the people around them could see that he was Hawke’s.

Of course, Varric didn’t actually say any of that either.

“ _Please_ ,” he said instead, and he didn’t think he’d ever begged like this before. If he had, it hadn’t felt anywhere near this needy and desperate. Hawke chuckled, pulling his hand out, slow and gentle.

“Hold on. Let me move my dick slightly.”

At first, Varric didn’t understand why Hawke wanted to do that. The adjustment certainly wasn’t graceful—he could hear frustrated grunts, the sound of metal fastenings being undone and redone, and the snap of a glove being removed behind him—and Varric was planning on saying something incredibly biting and witty, even if he wasn’t quite sure what it was going to be. Thankfully, Hawke figured his harness out just in time to protect the world from whatever kind of bad joke Varric had been about to inflict on it. He lay a hand on the dwarf’s back, and the pressure and warmth of his palm—tender and comforting and rough and wanting all at once—made all commentary die before it reached Varric’s lips.

“How hard do you want me to go?” Hawke asked, and part of Varric wanted to laugh, because of course it was then that Hawke was trying to be all chivalrous and noble. Not when his—nominally straight—best friend tried to kiss him in a leather bar backroom, on the very same evening said best friend had to have the mere concept of a backroom explained to him; not when he’d had his Varric’s cock in his mouth, or when his had been in Varric’s; not even when he’d bent Varric over in the sling—where everyone else in the backroom could see, mind you, and _fuck_ if the idea of that didn’t send a little jolt straight to Varric’s dick—and stretched him out, but then. 

“As hard as you want,” Varric said, and he trusted Hawke—kind, idiot, _brilliant_ Hawke—enough that he meant it.

“You sure?” Hawke’s voice was a low warning. 

“I’m sure.”

Hawke was a caring and gentle man. He was the kind of man who stopped to rescue kittens from trees or save people from a burning building, or whatever other kind of good deed he always managed to find when Varric really wanted the two of them to just hang out without incident for _once_ . Or, more accurately, he was a caring and gentle man when he _wasn’t_ a vicious sarcastic bastard, covering up his feelings with a tongue so sharp and prickly that it could have been covered in needles. And when Hawke finally pushed his cock inside Varric—slowly but firmly, one hand on Varric’s hip, holding him down in the sling—the dwarf realised he may have made a mistake because the Hawke he’d been given was the cruel, rat-bastard Hawke. It happened in a blink of an eye but somehow still felt as though it lasted an eternity; Hawke pushing forward and into Varric with the weight of his whole body behind his hips, pulling back with just as much force. He held still for a moment—just long enough that Varric got used to the feeling of only having the tip of Hawke’s cock in him—and then pushed back inside with just as much force as the first time. He wanted to call Hawke a bastard, to call him an asshole, to call him _anything_. But when he opened his mouth, he couldn't let anything escape his lips except a soft moan. 

Despite everything, Varric still had a little self respect left. Or at least, he wanted to think—as much as he could still think with Hawke’s hand holding him down and Hawke’s cock pounding in-and-out of him—he still had some self-respect left. So he closed his mouth, trying desperately to swallow his moans, to breathe through his nose, to try and ignore the saliva threatening to leak through the corner of his mouth.

“ _Maker_ , I really should have brought you here sooner.” Somehow, despite the way every word Hawke said was between groans and gasps for air, the man still managed to sound authoritative. Varric felt a little smaller, and then when the hand that wasn’t on his hip reached up to tangle in his hair— holding him near the roots, tugging slightly—he felt smaller still. “Never pegged you for being this much of a sub bottom before though.” 

There was a pause, and then a laugh. The kind of stupid laugh that Hawke always gave when he was very sure that the joke he’d made was proof he should become a world famous comedian. “ _Pegged you_! Get it Varric? Because I’m currently… you know.” 

Varric wanted to say _‘I fucking hate you’_ , or _‘please don’t tell your stupid puns while you’re still pounding my asshole’_ , or something to that effect. Unfortunately, Hawke had never heard of the concept of it being a ‘right time’ to tell jokes, and didn't bother to take a break from thrusting for his attempt at amateur comedy. When Varric opened his mouth to protest, all that came out was a mumble of sounds and groans. Hawke was as precise with his cock as he was with his fingers—which seemed a minor miracle, given Hawke couldn’t actually _feel_ his cock; if the Chantry canonised people for being fantastic in bed, Hawke deserved a nomination—and between that and how small and clouded Varric’s brain was starting to feel, it was hard to even remember that words existed.

The hand moved from his hair to rest lightly on his hand, and the thrusting stopped.

“Varric.” Hawke was suddenly very serious. “Squeeze my hand twice if you want me to carry on, and once if you want me to stop.”

With no hesitation, Varric squeezed twice. For a moment, Hawke squeezed it back. And then the hand went straight back to pulling at the base of Varric’s hair, Hawke’s hips rolling back and forward again. 

“That’s my guy,” the mage said, and if his brain didn’t already feel like cotton wool, Varric would have tried very hard not to think about the warm feeling in his chest at being called _Hawke’s_. Instead, he didn’t think, he only felt. And it felt so good to be called Hawke’s, to have Hawke fucking him and pounding him, to have Hawke holding him down and using him, and for it to be so rough but so caring at the same time. In the dark of the backroom, time didn’t seem to exist, and if asked later how long Hawke fucked him before he came, Varric wouldn’t be able to answer. But he did come—hard and slow, leaking onto the sling while Hawke praised him—even if it wasn’t until afterwards, lying on a leather sofa with Hawke’s arms wrapped around him, that he realised what had happened.

“Well,” was all Varric could think to say when his soul returned to his body. “ _Shit_.”

“I was that bad, huh?”

Varric stiffened against Hawke’s body—and now was the worst time to realise how nice it felt to be held in those arms; just held, with no expectation—because it wasn’t true. It was patently untrue, and— _Maker_ —Varric did not know how to feel about that. Hawke must have noticed the way that the dwarf’s weight shifted against him, because he offered a quick addendum. “That was a joke. I’m pretty certain you were enjoying that. And if not? Well, then there’s next time.”

It felt like a crossbow bolt had been fired through Varric’s heart.

“Next time?” It didn’t sound like Varric intended it to, because this time Hawke was the one who stiffened, and the dwarf wanted to kick himself for it.

“Ah. My fault for being presumptuous.” The mage’s words weren’t cold but they were cool—and somehow that was worse—and there was an awfully long pause before Hawke spoke again. “If you want, this can be it, just one time.” 

Varric had known the moment he’d kissed Hawke that this could never be a one-time thing for them. He’d been afraid that what the two of them had was too fragile to survive him finally giving into his urges, but really, the breaking would happen if they tried to pretend this night never happened. And beyond that, he _wanted_ this—again and again, in all its variations. 

“That is, if you want it to be. But…” Hawke trailed off, biting his lip. 

Varric finished the sentence for him. “You’d prefer it not to be?”

Hawke paused, then nodded, the gesture making his rough beard rub on Varric’s face. He smelled of sweat, but his skin didn’t feel slicked with the stuff the way it had when he’d been fucking the dwarf. But even under the smell of sweat, there was enough musk and leather that Varric still wanted to just bury his face into the mage’s chest. But more than that, he wanted to kiss the man.

“Hey Hawke?”

“Hmmm?”

The kiss was not as suave as it was in Varric’s head. Between the height difference between them— _what did they feed apostates in Ferelden?_ —and the low down leather couches, there was no way it could be. When Varric pressed his lips to the other man’s, their noses squished together, and he had absolutely no idea what to do with his hands. But it was still perfect, because he was kissing Hawke, and because even though Hawke’s bright blue eyes widened with surprise when he first did it, they softened instantly. 

“So,” Varric said after they managed to pull apart, even less gracefully than they’d kissed. “You know how you said bondage night was Tuesday?”


End file.
